"You usually don’t like blondes," he noted, turning his back on the bar and looking out at the crowd.
Angela took down half of her Manhattan in one sip and closed her eyes to enjoy the spicy bourbon sweetness.
“She’s a dirty blonde,” she replied with her eyes still closed.
“We’ll see,” he said and kissed her neck.
The bar was a Brooklyn copy of a Manhattan imitation of a Chicago speakeasy. The bartenders were beefy tattooed fellows in white dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Black suspenders and skinny black ties tucked into their shirts just under the third button. It was a place that put them both in heat.